


Becoming

by Anonymous



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Character Study, Gen, Origin Story, Panserbjørne, Panserbjørne Culture, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: All panserbjørne began life as bears, and being bear was nothing of which to be ashamed. Being bear was plenty honourable, in its own natural and instinct-driven way, but being bear was not being panserbjørne.Or: what does it mean to be panserbjørne? An exploration of panserbjørne thought, ritual, and culture, through the life of Iorek Byrnison.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Becoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revanchist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revanchist/gifts).



The first panserbjørne was named Loke Jarlebankesson.

He did not know his name, then. Or, perhaps he did, but it was knowledge that was locked away from him until he was strong enough to hold it. Bears did not have names—only panserbjørne had names. So at this time, Loke Jarlebankesson had no name, for he was only a bear.

Being a bear was no small thing—it was certainly a far sight better than being a human—but it was not the same as being panserbjørne. This, Katja Vesteindottir emphasized to her two young cubs, her decorated helm on her head. All panserbjørne began life as bears, and being bear was nothing of which to be ashamed. Being bear was plenty honourable, in its own natural and instinct-driven way, but being bear was not being panserbjørne.

Bears could not speak. Bears could not hold legends, bears could not understand ritual, bears could not value honour in the way that panserbjørne valued honour. Bears, Katja Vesteindottir said, could swim and fish and mate, but bears could not make more panserbjørne. 

But what made panserbjørne, Iorek’s brother asked. He had no name, just as Iorek did not have a name then (or perhaps they did both have names, but they were not yet strong enough to carry them), nor did he speak in the way that Iorek would later speak. What made panserbjørne different from bears? How did Loke Jarlebankesson become panserbjørne instead of merely bear?

Sky-metal, their mother told them. On one cold winter night, not that he knew anything about the seasons quite yet, Loke Jarlebankesson saw a flash of light in the sky. It was red, a sharper and brighter red than any of her two young cubs had ever seen yet or would likely ever see—more red than the flashes of the colour they sometimes saw in the aurora, brighter and lighter than the blood of a seal. It was a colour that could not be mistaken, that her sons would never mistake should they have the great and rare fortune to see it, and if they ever did see it, it would be a symbol of enormous favour from the skies.

Loke Jarlebankesson had seen the flash of fire streaking from the sky, and being perhaps unusually curious for a bear, he had sought it out; and when he did find it, a steaming hunk of red-grey metal fallen bright in the wide white expanse in which they lived, then he knew what he must do.

The metal was still hot to his claws, burning even as he worked with it, but he knew he must persist. He was the first panserbjørne, and therefore then they had not yet mastered the skills of the forge. But he worked with it, pounding and ripping until he had fashioned for himself a great suit of armour: a headpiece, as well as jointed pieces that would cover and protect his back and his sides. And when he put it on, he knew his name and what he was.

“I am Loke Jarlebankesson,” he roared to the skies, “and I am panserbjørne!”

* * *

Iorek Byrnison grows up on the flats of sea ice surrounding Svalbard. To the untrained eye, the landscape is colourless: an endless expanse of harsh white, occasionally flecked with the hints of blue or black, or, when Katja brings them a seal, stained with the dark, dark red of blood. But to the bears and panserbjørne who make the sea ice their home, there is more.

The black of the sea shines through where the ice is thin, tinting the ice grey instead of pure white. There is very little pure white on the sea ice—there are markings, scores of a brighter, lighter white in the ice which show where they have been and where they are going. There are glimpses of grey and black in the distance, always in the distance, hints of the dark rocks of Svalbard. Sometimes, there is a rumble, a sign of a sheet of ice and snow collapsing into the sea, which always reveals rock shining in black and brown and grey. The pale yellow warmth of the sun shines down on the sea ice, reflecting suggestions of other shades: blues, mostly, but also yellow and pink and green. Beyond this rich backdrop there is Iorek, and there is his mother and brother, and there are seals, and puffins, and cliff-ghasts who bring brown, and red, and a thousand shades between.

And there is the aurora. There are no words (not that Iorek has words, at least not in the same way that he will have and use words later) that can describe the great waterfalls of pink, blue, green and violet light that dance across the skies—brightest in the night-time half of the year, but pale and present even in the day-time half. The light of the ionic display beats down on them, sinking into their thick fur, and there is no better place for a young bear to grow up.

For Iorek is only a bear, and he not a panserbjørne yet. To become panserbjørne, he needs sky-metal; to become panserbjørne, he needs armour. There are some panserbjørne mothers, Katja tells them with a faint hint of derision in her voice, that hoard sky-metal for their cubs, but she is not one of them. Highborn princes her sons might be, but they will need to prove themselves worthy, to win sky-metal on their own before they can become panserbjørne. She scorns the cubs who have their sky-metal given to them as a gift, because so few of them are worthy of the status of being panserbjørne.

Iorek listens, but he thinks little of it. It is only a fact of life for him because he has no ability to conceive of an alternate future. He knows that he must find his own sky-metal, within the first year he is away from his mother, or he will remain simply a bear instead of becoming something greater. A sole year, she emphasizes to her cubs both—the little consciousness that she can share from herself disappears within a year, and if they do not find sky-metal within that year, they will forget how their thumbs are meant to work, they will forget their legends, and they will forget what little self they have.

They will know sky-metal when they find it, Katja tells them—the skies will speak to them when they touch it, and they will know. Then, they can take it to the great forges of Svalbard, and they can fashion their own armour, and when they don it, they will be panserbjørne and they will know themselves and their names.

Iorek listens, and between her stories and legends, he learns more—not consciously, for he thinks about very little of anything, but he listens and learns. He learns the panserbjørne code of honour; he hears the stories of Vilgot Dyrisson and Kjell Folkmarsson, who were cast out of the panserbjørne ranks, their all-important armour stripped from them, when they commit the horror of killing another panserbjørne outside the strict confines of the traditional combats. He learns ritual, for the panserbjørne are a war-like species, and it is permitted, even expected, for them to fight—especially if their honour is insulted or their strength need be proven. He memorizes the traditional phrasings for a dozen ritual combats, and he learns about the importance of submission. A panserbjørne with honour knows when to submit to a superior warrior, rare as that may be, because a part of their own honour is to give respect where respect is due.

There comes the day when their mother sends them out, and they know that she will not be there if they return. Her teachings are through, and they are alone.

* * *

Bears are by nature solitary, but panserbjørne are not. Iorek’s brother sticks by him, much to his unease—they both need to find sky-metal to retain themselves, and the little sentience he has tells him that should they only find enough for one, it will be trouble. Iorek is the larger of the two, and he has always won their play combats, but he would rather not defeat his brother for this purpose. Everything would be easier if his brother simply moved on and made his own way, but he knows not how to express this to his brother, nor can he conceive of any other way to force his brother off on his own.

Things are easier with two of them, and they are too much panserbjørne still for the solitary bear instincts to rule. With two of them, they can keep watch for dangers; with two of them, they can share their hunts and their kills together. With two of them, they can survive better in their hunt for the precious metal, and with two of them, perhaps their search is more refined.

But there comes the day when they find sky-metal. One touch of his paw is enough for him to tell what it is, because immediately his thoughts sharpen, as if he were drowsy previously and is now wide awake. The hunk is unassuming, a dark splash of grey and black ore lightly dusted with snow, and the texture is pitted and rough. This sky-metal has been sitting for some time, undiscovered, and Iorek quickly begins to dig it out.

His brother hangs back, knowing full well what Iorek has discovered, if only by his behaviour. Sometimes, sky-metal deposits are large—enough for two suits of armour, or even more. But as Iorek digs, he realizes that this deposit is a small one, and that there will only be enough for one.

He whirls on his brother, baring his teeth. His mind is already clearer with contact with the sky-metal. He will learn this later, but the sky-metal is already attuning to him and to him alone—the mere fact that he found it and was first to touch and dig it out is enough for the sky-metal to begin adapting to him. It would, indeed, never match to anyone else ever again. But Iorek doesn’t know this yet, and neither does his brother.

His brother, whom Iorek knows has a name even if he can’t quite find it yet (for that matter, his own feels to be on the tip of his tongue, so close that he can taste it, but it isn’t yet there), growls back at him and stamps on the thick sea ice. They both know how precious sky-metal is, and how critically they both need it, but this deposit is Iorek’s and he will fight for it. He does not wish to fight for it, and would much rather his brother submit, but he knows the chances of that are slim and becoming slimmer.

He growls back, louder with his own stamps, and they begin to circle. Without yet words, these are the first steps of ritual combat, the combats that are permitted under panserbjørne law. This is a test of strength, because where there are resources enough only for one, it is the stronger who takes it. When they have words, the reasons will be verbalized for all to hear, but neither Iorek nor his brother have yet words.

The first ambush is almost a surprise. Iorek’s brother dashes in with his teeth, aiming for his side, but this is a move that Iorek has seen him do so many times as cubs. He always begins with attacks to the side, rather than any full-frontal assault, and indeed the fact that Iorek has always been the larger of the two has made it a requirement. His brother simply doesn’t have a chance in a full-frontal assault, though one now would be surprising enough that Iorek would be taken aback, losing however briefly the tempo of the match. Iorek responds with a quicksilver turn and an outstretched claw, cuffing his brother on the side of his head.

Blood flies, Iorek scoring his brother lightly, but he knows it is nothing but a scratch. His brother lunges at him, and the combat begins in earnest. Iorek has always preferred combat with his paws, keeping his brother at a distance to the extent he can (his reach is longer, and it works to his advantage). His brother, on the other hand, has always preferred remaining close, close enough where he can use both paws and teeth and Iorek is hampered by his own reach. It is not only Iorek who lands a blow; his brother lands several, and they are both bleeding before Iorek sees his opportunity.

He has used his larger body mass to shove his brother. It is not a move intended to mark his opponent, only one meant to push his brother into the best position for Iorek to best press his advantage. Instead of being pushed away, however, his brother drops, arrowing in under Iorek’s belly. Iorek, sensing the change, drops his full weight on his brother and they roll once, twice, thrice—until Iorek ends up on top, as he knows he always does when they grapple. He is the bigger, and he is the stronger, and he pins his brother underneath him with his teeth at his brother’s throat.

They freeze in tableau for a long, long minute, before his brother relaxes and submits.

There are no words, but only an understanding. Iorek has won, which means he keeps the sky-metal deposit, and his brother has lost. This is the moment that they part ways, at least for the short term, and all Iorek can do is hope that his brother finds another sky-metal deposit soon. There may be another one nearby, he knows, for the legends say that sometimes the sky-metal shatters in the air and spreads over one area, but there is no obligation for him to stay or help.

Indeed, Iorek feels little about defeating his brother—he is the stronger, and he is the winner, and this is the way of the panserbjørne. But as he lumbers back to his sky-metal and picks it up, he looks after his brother, who is looking outwards towards the white expanse of sea ice around them.

“You will find your own sky-metal,” he finds himself saying, and these are his first words. They come out, low and hoarse, from vocal cords which have never yet been used. “I believe in your strength.”

His brother pauses, his muzzle tilting slightly towards Iorek, but he doesn’t respond. He can’t.

* * *

The great panserbjørne forges are deep in the rocky interior of Svalbard. The islands are a strange place, at least compared to the vast expanses of sea ice on which Iorek has lived his childhood—most of the landmass is covered in ice, but it rises and falls in deep peaks and crevasses like he has rarely seen. The parts of the archipelago not covered by ice are sharp and mountainous, bare rock dark against the bright white snow and ice.

It is the time of the midnight sun when he arrives, his sky-metal carried on his back. During the long polar night, the skies pale but the sun never crosses the horizon; the sea ice expands and grows, creating healthy hunting grounds for bears and panserbjørne alike. His thick fur is more than up to the challenge of the icy, sunless cold, but it is more hindrance than help when he reaches the great forges.

Almost all sky-metal is discovered lingering in the ice, now—it is very, very rare for a panserbjørne to find a fresh offering from the skies, still red with heat. The great forges are needed to work with the metal in the fashioning of armour and a thousand other tools now used by the panserbjørne, and they are always staffed by a dozen strong panserbjørne smiths. He can feel the fiery heat emanating from the forges from almost a hundred feet away, and the shimmering glow of reflected flames light up the landscape.

The guard at the door doesn’t speak to him, only looks him over once. The forging of sky-metal armour is a rite of passage for young panserbjørne, and no questions need to be asked. There is only a brief nod, before the guard steps aside.

The heat of the forges is more than Iorek knows to expect. Far from being a comforting glow, the heat burns, steady and unrelenting, on his face. He can’t help but curl his lip from his teeth in distaste, but there is no choice for it—only in the great fires of the Svalbard forges can he heat his sky-metal enough to be easily worked.

There are always several anvils free for young panserbjørne crafting their souls, and Iorek is directed to one of them without hesitation. He knows, whether it be by instinct or by his mother’s careful recitation of their legends, the basics of what he must do.

His sky-metal goes into the fire, until it turns a glowing orange. Then out it comes of the fire, onto his anvil, to be split into three separate pieces—his helmet, and two jointed sections that will form his protective side plates. He works his side plates first because they are the easiest to fashion, pounding them out until they are flat. Back into the fire they go, when they are too cold for him to work, then out they come to be flattened and shaped more, again and again until he has two curved pieces that wrap around him well. His helmet takes more work and precision, but within two weeks he has the basics of his armour.

Then, and only then, do the experienced panserbjørne smiths come to offer their aid. A panserbjørne fashions the basics of his armour, a serviceable set of armour, without help and finds himself or herself along the way—once that it done, the matter of additional pieces or decorations, such as chainmail or scalemail protection for his underbelly, gauntlets for his front legs and paws, or relief work on his armour are up to the individual panserbjørne to accept. Thinking of his brother, Iorek accepts the guidance offered and adds chainmail protection for his belly, but he leaves off the gauntlets in deference to his preferred fighting style. For his designs, he chooses simple rather than ornate: an etching of the landscape around him, with scored lines for the mountains and waves for the sea.

It takes him nearly a month to complete his suit of armour. It is dark grey, elegant in its own way, and when he dons it, he knows himself.

“What is your name, son?” The panserbjørne smith asks him, nodding his head in approval at the finished product. This smith has seen dozens of young panserbjørne come through the forges, has provided guidance to many of them, and he knows the importance of this moment.

“Iorek Byrnison,” Iorek replies, his name coming to mind for the first time. “My name is Iorek Byrnison.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the smith replies with a small hint of panserbjørne approval in his face. “Iorek Byrnison.”

* * *

The ice palace of the king is grand, grander than anything that Iorek has seen before. The walls, made of snow and ice, are tall and thick, and no less than two panserbjørne stand guard before its wide-open gate at any time. There are no doors, for doors are not fashioned out of snow and ice, and the panserbjørne fear nothing. The guard is merely an honour, not protection, for all panserbjørne can defend themselves with ease. Those that cannot do not deserve protection.

Inside, there are more walls. These ones are lower than the ones around the complex, because they are not intended for protection, only for organization and privacy. The panserbjørne are by nature solitary, and even gathered in one place, require spaces where they can be alone. On closer inspection, the walls are harder than one would expect. Not merely packed ice and snow, they have stood for generations, with each polar day and midnight sun alternately melting and then freezing the ice into something stronger. This is glacial ice, strong enough to withstand even a full-grown panserbjørne’s assault.

Iorek is there to pledge his service to the king. Not all panserbjørne opt for military service, but many do—ultimately, the panserbjørne are a warlike species, and Iorek is perhaps the ideal of such. He is a warrior, and he prides himself on his fighting ability; he never considers anything else. The service of the king is a place where young panserbjørne can compete with each other and gain renown, and if truth be told, Iorek would not know where else to go. The smith’s life is not for him, and he is too young and eager and hotheaded for a solitary life on the sea ice to appeal to him.

A life of adventure, of travelling among people not his own across the reaches of the arctic, is not even in question. Iorek Byrnison is panserbjørne, and he is proud to be panserbjørne. He will stay in the homeland of the panserbjørne.

The Great Hall, where King Gjohl Hælæifsson holds court, is the grandest structure ever created by the panserbjørne. As Iorek walks inside, he sees an honour guard of a half-dozen panserbjørne, whom he knows are the handpicked superior fighters among the King’s Guard. Along the walls, carved over years, are tapestries detailing panserbjørne legend. He can see Loke Jarlebankesson among the first three panels, then there are another four or five depicting famous heroes of the panserbjørne past: Edvard Hreinsson, who led the panserbjørne to victory during the War of the Witches and drove witches from Svalbard’s skies; Sture Gudmundsson, who did the same for the humans who tried to incur on their lands; Majken Sturladottir, who united the panserbjørne under one banner for the first time in time immemorial.

There is no ceiling. The walls rise high, but nothing inhibits the tingle of starlight and the aurora on Iorek’s fur. There are never ceilings among the panserbjørne, because they are a people who are born, who live, and who die under the freedom of the wide arctic skies. The Great Hall is pristine, with any activities that mar the snow and ice perfection to be left to other spaces.

King Hælæifsson is listening to a report given by an older panserbjørne, one whom, Iorek realizes after a few minutes of listening, has recently travelled to the mainland country of humans. He speaks of fishing encroachments on their traditional territories, great ships that intend on trawling the oceans for fish with nets larger than anything that they have tried thus far. The men are not hunting seals, which would be a greater problem for the panserbjørne, but Iorek is not so foolish that he cannot understand that these grand nets may capture seals anyway, or even if not, a depletion of fish stocks will cascade to fewer seals and, accordingly, more difficult hunts. The panserbjørne is counselling retaliatory action, to reinforce fear among the humans, and King Hælæifsson nods in consideration. It is not consent, because as warlike as the panserbjørne are, they are also intelligent, and war with the humans is something that requires great thought before action.

Report done, the older panserbjørne lowers his head in symbolic submission and disappears into one of the back rooms of the palace. King Hælæifsson turns his attention to Iorek, who approaches slowly to pose no threat to either the king or to his honour guard and lowers his own head in submission.

“Your name, young one?” King Hælæifsson’s voice is a low growl, but it is not unkind. Indeed, panserbjørne do not have a sense of kindness as other species would appreciate—there is right, and there is wrong, and there is duty and justice, and there is the strong and the weak, but kindness in and of itself is a strange concept.

“Iorek Byrnison, my king,” Iorek murmurs humbly, his eyes fixed firmly on the glacial ice beneath him. It shimmers, the reflection of his dark nose and eyes. “I have come to offer my services in your guard.”

This is not an unusual request, and it is one that King Hælæifsson has heard often enough in his years as king of the panserbjørne. Iorek does not see, since his eyes are fixed firmly on the ice beneath his paws as is proper, but there is a flash of recognition in King Hælæifsson’s eyes.

“Well met, cousin,” King Hælæifsson says in reply, and Iorek knows that the acknowledgement of their relationship is a high honour being accorded to him. “You may raise your head. I knew your father well—a more honourable brother-in-arms I could never have had, and I still grieve for his loss. Your service is accepted, and may you serve with the same honour and integrity that your father served me.”

“You do me a great honour,” Iorek replies, bowing his head once again. Even if the king has said he may raise it, he knows better than to do anything other than to show respect for the honour being done to him. “I pray to the skies that I may.”

King Hælæifsson jerks his head at one of his honour guard. “Håkan Eyjolfsson will show you to the guard quarters and will update you on your duties. Go.”

“My king.” Iorek bows his head one final time and lopes out of the Great Hall after the panserbjørne guard who has done the same.

It seems like no time has passed before Iorek has settled into the routine of the King’s Guard. There are almost three score panserbjørne part of the Guard, and time spent off guard duty in either the Great Hall or elsewhere in the palace is spent in training and study. The panserbjørne have not a strong written literary culture, but one rich in oral history and legend. Iorek learns the best historical strategies for fighting witches and humans both, and he follows the older King’s Guard for skirmishes against the cliff-ghasts, a perennial nuisance on Svalbard. He spars with all in the King’s Guard, and in time he wins renown as a strong fighter.

Sparring, where there is no submission expected and no wounding permitted, is not a ritual fight, but Iorek does not fight ritual fights. Perhaps it is his prowess as demonstrated on the sparring field, but it seems that his fellow panserbjørne do not challenge him. Instead, they merely concede the field before a ritual fight can even commence, and Iorek never needs to prove his strength in any more formal context than sparring.

It is nearly a year before his brother joins him, much to his pleasure. Ragnar Byrnison has not chosen the life of a King’s Guard, but rather as a panserbjørne smith, and he comes carrying elegant carved gauntlets for the King and a decorated iron breastplate for Iorek. He takes up station in the palace as the palace smith, and in moments between training and working, Iorek and his brother lope along the ice, hunting seals together.

* * *

Siv Saksidottir is the handsomest of the female panserbjørne.

Female panserbjørne are, if anything, even more solitary than male panserbjørne. Female panserbjørne raise their cubs alone out on the ice, away from other bears and panserbjørne both, for more than two years each litter of cubs. But there are always a few in or around the Ice Palace. Some are there on business, to report happenings that may be interesting or relevant to the panserbjørne king, but many are there in search of mates, especially at the end of the long polar night. Panserbjørne are not monogamous—they mate only for a season, and sometimes not even for a season if a stronger contender arises. It is known that the strongest bears are at the Ice Palace, from the king to his prized King’s Guard, and in the mating season, it seems as though the Ice Palace has been overrun by female panserbjørne.

When the female panserbjørne are present, however, there are always more ritual fights. The female panserbjørne look for strength in their mates, and some panserbjørne are only too happy to oblige with a ritual show of strength. If not given as a gift by the competing males, some female panserbjørne will prompt a ritual fight for their favour, which Iorek has always found somewhat demeaning.

Not that he hasn’t had his share of mates. Some female panserbjørne, the ones that Iorek thinks are likely cleverer than those who prompt ritual shows of strength, look to the training courts as well as the ritual grounds to find a mate. Like with ritual fights, it seems that Iorek’s prowess in the sparring courts is enough for many female panserbjørne, and he never needs to show his strength on the ritual grounds. He notices, in time, that this is indeed the case for many of the strongest panserbjørne—no panserbjørne wishes to humiliate himself with a needless show of submission. Iorek has had his share of mates, and he feels no need to throw himself into the array of bears competing for Siv Saksidottir’s favour.

Regrettably, Siv Saksidottir does not feel the same.

She follows him. She bothers him. There are days when he comes close to simply telling her that if she is interested in him, then they can go right off to mate for a week and have done with it, and if not, then she can simply find a panserbjørne that she prefers—Iofur Raknison, a panserbjørne that has lost against Iorek in every sparring fight over three years, certainly seems interested, and young Hjarl Hjarlsson is absolutely smitten. Iorek finds the whole thing unseemly and very much un-panserbjørne, but he says nothing.

Iorek has never been particularly loud-spoken, and whatever renown and honour he has won over the past few years would be too easily squandered with a needless comment. Iorek thinks more than necessary about what he ought to say and not say, carefully considering his place and the impact on his honour, and more often than not he chooses to say nothing at all. Iorek prefers to let his physical prowess do his speaking for him, anything else being far too human for his tastes. Iorek is strong on the field—what else need be said?

In retrospect, he ought to have said something.

“Iorek Byrnison,” Saksidottir says, catching up with him as he comes off a guard shift and crosses the Ice Palace grounds. She is well in the view of her other suitors—most particularly Hjarlsson and Raknison—who seem to follow her whenever they are not occupied by other duties. He wonders if they truly have nothing else to do but follow her, because Iorek certainly does.

“Siv Saksidottir.”

“I find that I am interested in you most in particular,” she continues, following him as he pads back to his guard quarters. “What say you to a week on the ice?”

Iorek looks at her, a thousand misgivings going through his head. This is a game that Saksidottir has been playing for weeks, and it is one of which he tires. The long weeks of being followed by her, listening to her subtle hints that he prove himself when he feels no need to do any such thing, and distracting him from other potential mates has made him significantly less interested in her. As handsome as she is, he finds that he might prefer a panserbjørne with—something else. A sense of cleverness, or more honour, or perhaps he simply prefers a panserbjørne who can make her decisions without feeling the need to air her every momentary inclination to all of her suitors at once.

On the other paw, this is the most decisive that Saksidottir has been all season: a clear invitation that they take off for a week on the ice to mate. The experience is pleasant, and one that Iorek has enjoyed yearly for the last four years, and Saksidottir has successfully pushed off any other female panserbjørne who might have shown interest in him earlier. It is getting late in the mating season, and he cannot deny that Saksidottir is very handsome. The slope of her shoulders is appealing, and her size alone shows that she can well feed and defend their cubs.

“I would agree—” Iorek begins, his tones slow and measured, but he is interrupted.

“No!” Hjarlsson cuts in, shoving his bulk in between Iorek and Saksidottir with a wild desperation that Iorek does not feel, and which he finds somewhat embarrassing and dishonourable. Not for himself, but for Hjarlsson. “Iorek Byrnison, you have no right to Siv Saksidottir. I challenge you to a ritual show of strength!”

Iorek pauses, slowly turning towards the other panserbjørne in minor disbelief. Hjarlsson is a young panserbjørne, born several seasons after Iorek himself. He joined the King’s Guard only two winters ago, and while he is lowborn, he shows promise. In the sparring courts, he is known to be a rising star—his size is compensated by his cleverness and perseverance, and while Iorek has never fought him himself, he knows that Hjarlsson would pose a formidable fight. Perhaps it is his very lowborn status that makes Hjarlsson formidable, because Hjarlsson needs to prove himself more than Iorek ever did.

Iorek feels a stirring of interest, if only because no panserbjørne has dared to challenge him before to a proof of strength. He is, however, rather less interested in the prize. Not because he thinks he will lose, only that Saksidottir is not so handsome or so impressive that he feels any particular need to assert his dominance. He would, indeed, rather that Saksidottir simply have selected Hjarlsson, that Iorek himself was not put in this position.

The issue, of course, is that once challenged, concession would be tantamount to submission. And Iorek Byrnison, being panserbjørne, does not submit unless he is pushed into submission by a show of strength or authority, which Hjarlsson does not have. Iorek is highborn, and he is strong, and a concession now says that he is weak.

“You have challenged me to a ritual show of strength,” Iorek replies, picking his words carefully. “I am honour-bound to agree.”

Of all the ritual responses he could have given, Iorek has chosen a bland one. He has not defended Saksidottir, and he has indicated that he will agree to combat as a matter of honour. Any panserbjørne, properly educated in ways of the panserbjørne, knows from his words that he is not interested in Saksidottir and that, should Hjarlsson withdraw the challenge, Iorek will decline her invitation. It should have been enough for them both to walk away with no honour lost, no submission on either side.

Hjarlsson does not agree.

“Today,” he insists, naming the time of combat, as is his right. “And there is no better time than now.”

Iorek blinks slowly in well-hidden surprise, before inclining in his head in agreement. He has no choice—at this stage in the ritual combat, any concession is read as cowardice, and Iorek Byrnison is not a coward. He does not know why Hjarlsson is so keen on a ritual combat, which is altogether puzzling given that Iorek has provided a way out for both of them, but perhaps the other panserbjørne considers that Iorek is tired after a guard shift, and that a success would bring him great honour.

Iorek may not have fought Hjarlsson before, but he has seen the other panserbjørne in the sparring and ritual courts. Hjarlsson is good, but Iorek knows himself to be better. Any appropriate assessment of risk should have led to both of them walking away with no harm done.

“Then let us be off to the ritual courts,” Iorek replies, his voice slow and even and measured. “If you insist.”

Another opening for Hjarlsson to withdraw, though doing so now would cause him to lose face. Iorek is not surprised when Hjarlsson snarls and replies, “I insist.”

The ritual courts are a familiar place, though Iorek has never entered onto the field himself. Unlike the rest of the Ice Palace, the grounds are bare, stripped down to permafrost-hardened dirt and rock. The better for their claws to find purchase, Iorek knows. There are no seats surrounding the combat ground, but there is space—one spot is marked for guests of honour, of which Saksidottir, being the cause and prize of this ritual fight, is one, but the rest will be soon filled with off-duty and curious panserbjørne. Ritual combats are always a matter of interest, two panserbjørne finding something to be important enough to risk a combat, and they are always well-attended by crowds.

For all things to be called to the ritual grounds for, Iorek would have never expected it to be this. He had always thought something worth fighting for would be loftier than the attentions of a female panserbjørne, and before the combat even begins, he is annoyed. He will finish this quickly, he thinks, and then he will take his week on the ice with Saksidottir because he can, and that will be it.

It is some minutes before Hjarlsson is ready for combat. Unlike Iorek, who has just come off guard duty, he needs time to check and put on his armour. Iorek notes with disapproval that Iofur Raknison is still standing beside the other panserbjørne, inappropriately helping him so close to a ritual combat. In a show of strength, the parties are to stand alone—any assistance at all is considered a point of weakness. Still, it is not his concern, and Iorek takes the time to plan out his opening statement.

As the challenger, Hjarlsson goes first. “Panserbjørne,” he roars to the crowd that is still gathering. “I have challenged Iorek Byrnison to a show of strength over the favours of Siv Saksidottir. Iorek Byrnison is a weak bear, one wholly undeserving of her affections, and I intend to show this for one and all!”

“Panserbjørne,” Iorek replies, pitching his own voice to be heard clearly over the chatter of the crowds. “Among you I have lived for six years; in your King’s Guard I have served. I have demonstrated my strength time and time again in the defence of the Ice Palace, against cliff-ghasts, witches, and humans alike. I object to being characterized as weak and intend to defend my honour from insult given.”

“Panserbjørne,” Hjarlsson replies, baring his teeth in threat, “Iorek Byrnison speaks highly of himself, and yet has never stepped into these ritual combat grounds himself. Is that conduct becoming of a panserbjørne? He is a coward, and what training he has done in the sparring courts is meaningless. In my victory, I will show you that his words have no merit and that he is nothing to fear.”

“Panserbjørne,” Iorek returns, stamping on the ground to feel out his position. “Rather than being feared, I believe that I should be respected. I believe I am respected; respected enough, indeed, that I have never been asked to prove my strength, for all already know it. In my victory, I will demonstrate what is already known, which is my honour, my integrity, and my strength.”

One opening, and one reply, for each the challenger and the challenged. Other rituals are more complex—a battle for kingship, for example, would involve up to six statements for each party, but two suffices for a standard ritual combat. What they are fighting over is always clear, from the context if not from their words.

Hjarlsson does not waste time. He charges at Iorek, a full-frontal assault, and while Iorek is surprised he does not hesitate to defend himself. He lowers his head, setting himself to take the impact, and when the moment is right, he steps forward into the lunge and headbutts his opponent’s underbelly, sending him flying over him. It is a technique he learned here, and not one that he uses often, simply because few panserbjørne choose to open their fights with him with a full-frontal assault.

If Iorek had been thinking, he would have realized that Hjarlsson does not usually open his fights in such a way either. Hjarlsson is a smaller panserbjørne, one whose fighting style relies predominately on his speed, his cleverness, and his mastery of his body, not on his physical strength. In his previous fights, Hjarlsson has always waited to intercept the opening blow, fading back until he sees his opening.

But Iorek is not thinking; he is only fighting. He follows up on his advantage with a harsh cuff of his paw over Hjarlsson’s head, winning first blood with one offhand claw across Hjarlsson’s jaw, then while Hjarlsson is reeling and struggling to come to his feet, he lunges and pins him to the ground. His jaws are working, and he finds just enough space to dig his teeth into the narrow space between Hjarlsson’s helmet and his body armour.

Hjarlsson doesn’t submit, though Iorek has him in position where submission would be a respectable and respected decision. Hjarlsson is known for his perseverance though, so when Hjarlsson shakes him off, at the cost of worsening his injury, Iorek goes willingly and takes another defensive position. He has marked his opponent twice, and he is winning.

Hjarlsson shakes his head again, sprinkling blood drops onto the grounds, and then he charges at Iorek again. Another foolish decision, one that Iorek notices with the briefest sense of surprise, even as he sidesteps him and aims another strike at Hjarlsson’s head. He misses, and his claws go skittering off Hjarlsson’s armour, but it doesn’t matter—Hjarlsson’s strike, too, goes wild.

They both withdraw for a moment, pacing and gearing up for another attack. This time, it is Iorek who strikes first, feinting an attack on Hjarlsson’s right, then going left when Hjarlsson falls for it. Hjarlsson ought not to have fallen for it—indeed, in his past fights, he rarely falls for feints—but Iorek takes the opportunity when it presents itself. A sharp claw under Hjarlsson’s helmet, and he sends it flying into the crowd.

This should have resulted in submission. Divesting any panserbjørne of any of the three key pieces of his armour, his very soul, is serious symbolic assertion of dominance. Any other panserbjørne, Iorek included, would have submitted—but strangely, Hjarlsson doesn’t. Instead, he bellows in rage, and he turns to slash a vicious cut across Iorek’s shoulder.

Blood wells up, painful but manageable, and Iorek takes three steps back to reconsider the fight. The reality simply does not make sense to him—he has marked Hjarlsson, quite severely, with first blood. He has landed a pin and a painful wound on the back of Hjarlsson’s neck. He has divested Hjarlsson of his helmet, one of the key pieces of his armour. By any metric, Iorek has won, and Hjarlsson should be submitting.

Around him, he can hear a disapproving murmur travelling through the crowd. In his favour, Iorek can hope, but he has no time to pay attention to it. Hjarlsson is charging at him again, and Iorek must defend himself. He must force Hjarlsson to submit, and he can take the time to examine why Hjarlsson did not submit later.

Iorek had never held back in the match, and over the next fifteen minutes, he divests Hjarlsson of his breastplate and belly covering and lands two serious wounds in Hjarlsson’s belly. He uses his size and his weight to his full advantage, pushing Hjarlsson around the combat field, and forces him to the ground over and over again. The match goes on, but Hjarlsson does not submit. Hjarlsson refuses to submit, to the point beyond recklessness, beyond loss of honour, beyond loss of sense, and Iorek does not understand.

Iorek does not understand, and he does not even want Saksidottir, and he only wants to go back to his guard quarters and sleep for a few hours after his long guard duty shift. Iorek is angry, because this is a situation that is completely alien to everything he has ever been taught, and it doesn’t make any sense. Hjarlsson should be submitting. Hjarlsson should have submitted fifteen minutes ago.

And he isn’t, and no one can interfere.

It is blow after blow after blow. Iorek tries to render his opponent into unconsciousness, but whether he is driven by madness or something else, Hjarlsson staggers upright, heavily bleeding, from even Iorek’s hardest strikes. Iorek doesn’t recognize when he loses his head—he is puzzled, and he is angry, and he is frustrated, and when he sees the opportunity and clamps his powerful jaws around Hjarlsson’s throat and rips it out, he barely even notices his opponent’s life bleeding away on the dark, earthen grounds. Hjarlsson has broken half the norms of ritual combat that Iorek has ever learned, and it does not even feel real.

There is silence. He remembers the silence, and he remembers standing in the centre of the ritual court. He remembers a conscious thought that he is not dreaming, and a dry, exhausted horror at his own actions.

“Murder!” Someone roars, and somehow Iorek is not surprised to see that it is Iofur Raknison who is taking up the call. “ _Murder!_ Arrest Iorek Byrnison, and let us hold him for the judgement of the king!”

Iorek doesn’t fight the King’s Guard who come to hold him, or who come and take his armour from him. He is too shocked at his own actions—he has killed, on the ritual combat grounds, and this is one of the strongest offences known under panserbjørne law. He has killed a panserbjørne that he did not, truly, want to kill, and he has done it over a female panserbjørne that he did not even want.

The problem is, he doesn’t understand what else he was supposed to have done. Hjarl Hjarlsson did not submit. Iorek did everything that he knew how to do to make Hjarlsson submit, and he didn’t do so. What else was he supposed to have done?

It seems like no time before Iorek is standing before King Gjohl Hælæifsson, and Iofur Raknison is explaining his crime. The words go in his head, but they don’t stick—his mind is still replaying the fight, over and over and over again. Hjarlsson did not submit. Hjarlsson should have submitted, but he did not. Hjarlsson took three serious wounds and lost his helmet, and he did not submit. Why didn’t he submit?

Iorek does not hear Raknison when he depicts Iorek as out of control, a mindless savage little better than a mere bear, who murdered Hjarl Hjarlsson out of cold blood.

He does not hear the panserbjørne who chime in on his behalf, who advise King Hælæifsson that something else was wrong—something else was tragically, horribly wrong. Hjarlsson was not himself. Hjarlsson had long been smitten with Siv Saksidottir, and he was desperate. Hjarlsson did not behave as a panserbjørne should, and he did not submit at any of the opportunities that he should have used to submit. Iorek had no choice, and a fuller enquiry need be done.

He does not hear Raknison’s response, that panserbjørne law is clear, that Iorek ought to have wounded only and not killed, and that Iorek must either be exiled or executed for his crime.

He does not hear his defenders speak for him, saying that Iorek did wound Hjarlsson—three times, in fact, and two were grievous wounds, but Hjarlsson did not submit. He does not hear them repeat that Hjarlsson was not himself, or that a fuller enquiry need be made before any sentence given.

He does not even hear King Hælæifsson’s question, not until his brother, standing on the floor with him, knocks his shoulder with his own.

“Well, Iorek Byrnison?” the king says, and his expression is a mixture of disbelief and concern. “I would like to hear your statement on this ritual combat. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I—” Iorek begins, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He doesn’t have anything to defend himself. He has killed another panserbjørne, and even if the how is quite clear, he doesn’t understand why. This is not Iorek—this is not the standard that Iorek has set for himself. He doesn’t know what else he was to have done, but a strong panserbjørne would have found a way to make Hjarl Hjarlsson submit.

Iorek is not a strong panserbjørne, and he shuts his jaw. He looks down at the ground. He will not embarrass himself further.

The silence stretches, obscenely long. Ragnar casts him a worried look, but Iorek does not see it. It feels like hours, the waiting silence, but eventually the king speaks.

“Without your testimony, I have little choice,” King Hælæifsson says, and if Iorek was paying attention, he would have noticed the faintest strain of regret in his voice. “Panserbjørne law is clear; the killing of another panserbjørne is one of the greatest offences known to our kind, and one which cannot be allowed to go unpunished. Iorek Byrnison, for the crime of having killed another panserbjørne, you have lost the right to panserbjørne status. You are to be cast out from panserbjørne society, your armour confiscated, to return to the wildness from which we came. Ragnar Byrnison, step away from your kin—you are instructed to destroy his armour, in accordance with our law.”

“My king,” Ragnar says, and he steps away from Iorek. He has no choice, and Iorek is glad that he does. There is no need for them both to be tainted by his crime. “I will obey.”

His last few hours in the Ice Palace are not something that he likes to think about, later. His armour has already been stripped from him, but they ransack his small room in the guard quarters and take away his other few possessions. A few more pieces of armour, not as critical as his sky-metal; the soft fabrics that covered his sleeping area, and a few other sentimental items. He doesn’t enjoy these hours, but he savours them anyway.

Being cast out without his armour is a death sentence. Without his armour, he will not retain his sentience for long—he will return to being a bear, and only a bear. Even if he finds sky-metal, he will not be allowed to use it, for he is banned from the great Svalbard forges. Iorek Byrnison will cease to exist, and as painful as these hours are, he desperately want to exist, even if another part of him wonders if he should.

Everything happened too quickly. The panserbjørne are not a people that linger over decisions that need to be made, but everything in the past few hours feels too fast, too vivid, almost unreal. Iorek Byrnison would never have killed another panserbjørne, and maybe he has lost himself already. Maybe Iorek Byrnison was left on the ritual grounds, as still as the body of Hjarl Hjarlsson.

The guards that walk him out of the Ice Palace are silent the entire journey. Both are panserbjørne that he knew well, and if Iorek was paying attention during his rushed trial, he would have known that both had spoken on his behalf. But they say nothing, and neither does Iorek, and the kindly pat of one paw against his injured shoulder only prompts confusion. Iorek is a criminal; why is he being comforted?

They leave him a mile away from the Ice Palace, no words spoken, and Iorek continues loping away. His brother is waiting on the other side of the next rise.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Iorek says, as Ragnar intercepts him. “I am not panserbjørne.”

“You should have argued,” Ragnar replies, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “Something was wrong with Hjarl Hjarlsson, Iorek. You knew it. I knew it. Most of the panserbjørne knew it. But you did not argue.”

“I killed another panserbjørne.” Iorek looks away. “What is there to say?”

“You had no choice.” Ragnar growls, a low rumble that Iorek is glad no one is nearby to hear. “He did not submit, Iorek, as he should have. Something was wrong, and I swear to you that I will look into it. Do not lose yourself, Iorek. Here.”

One paw holds out a talisman, loped on a thin piece of chain. It isn’t Ragnar’s best work—Ragnar is resident at the Ice Palace because he is known for his fine jeweller’s work, as well as his armourer skills. He likes making beautiful things, which are used for trade with both the humans and the witches in return for fire hurlers and other goods. The talisman itself is only a small triangle, but from the pattern of waves on it, Iorek knows it is a piece of his armour.

“You should not have done this, Ragnar,” Iorek says, growling in disapproval. “You should not have disobeyed the King.”

Ragnar shakes his head, but he doesn’t respond to the allegation. “I believe in you, Iorek. Go, and I will find a witch or human to carry word to you when you may come home. What happened today was not panserbjørne, and I will see it righted.”

Iorek doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have Ragnar’s faith, nor his conviction, but he reaches out anyway and takes the talisman. He doesn’t know why he does, but there is some part of him that wants to survive, whatever he might have done. Whatever dishonour he might have done.

He thinks that he should say something to his brother, if only because this may be their last ever conversation. “Stay safe, Ragnar,” he says finally. “Do nothing foolish.”

Ragnar inclines his head, neither agreement nor disagreement, and Iorek loops the talisman around his head. He turns around and strides off into the distance, and he doesn’t look back.

* * *

The midnight sun is blinding, distracting at all hours. The first few months, Iorek thinks too much—he vacillates between a sharp sense of anger and pain, the probing sense that something was wrong with his ritual fight, and the self-flagellating shame and guilt of having killed another panserbjørne. Hjarl Hjarlsson should have submitted, and the fact that he didn’t is confusing and impossible to understand; but Iorek was the stronger, and he should have found a way.

The talisman that his brother has given him is a source of pain. He should throw it away—he should accept his punishment with grace and integrity, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to lose himself, and his brother’s conviction runs through his mind: something was wrong. This shouldn’t have happened. Some days, he clings to those words, and on others, he rejects them wholly and spends long hours staring into the sea, willing himself the strength and honour to throw his talisman into the dark, black depths.

But he never does. He never takes that last, crucial, honourable step, and he always walks away. He goes hunting instead, taking seals when he can get them, but fish when he can’t, and he travels.

Away from Svalbard. Away from the home of the panserbjørne, farther and farther away from where he might ever have to see another panserbjørne and remember his anger, his pain, his shame, and his guilt. The further away he travels, the less he thinks—not a loss of his consciousness, but something different. He doesn’t want to think about it, and the further he goes, the less he does. His days become rote—the ice floes, the sea, the pale yellow sun all become the same, day after day after day.

There are fish and seals, enough for his sustenance, but they have no taste. The young seals, the old ones, even fish taste the same to him, bland and dull and without flavour. When he doesn’t need to eat, he walks. From time to time, he sees a human or a witch settlement, but without his armour he stays far away from them. He does not want to tangle with humans or witches, whom he cannot conceive of yet as anything except enemies.

The only sign of time passing is that the days grow shorter. The time of the midnight sun comes to an end, and the days grow colder. Iorek doesn’t notice—even without armour, the panserbjørne are well protected against the elements. The only thing he does notice is the night sky, for in darkness, the colours of the aurora shine brighter.

The beauty of the night-time aurora is one of the few things left that Iorek can still enjoy, which is perhaps why he spends as much time as he can staring into the skies. As the days grow darker, the nights colder, and the sea ice spreads through the north, it becomes easier to travel further and further away. He walks with the light of the aurora to guide him, without thinking about where he is going, until he finds himself in Nova Zembla.

There is nothing in Nova Zembla—most of the island is covered in glaciers, which creak and groan under his paws as he treads over them. There are human settlements in the south, where the ground is barren and ice-free, but Iorek stays far to the north of them. But it is in Nova Zembla that he stops to rest and watch the curtains of the aurora play across the night sky, and that he sees it.

A streak of red, a sharper and brighter red than Iorek had ever seen. It was not the light of the aurora, or any of the other myriad lights that he has learned to read in the night sky—it is more solid than ephemeral, and it is moving far too fast to be any of the human contraptions that have started wandering into the north. It is more red than the pale pink-violet-red of the aurora, brighter and lighter than the blood of a seal; it is a colour that Iorek cannot mistake, and it is a rare symbol of favour from the skies.

It is sky-metal. _Fresh_ sky-metal, and Iorek hesitates for only a few seconds before he starts walking after it. There is no guarantee that he will find it—and perhaps even when he does, it will be cold, and he won’t be able to work it. He doesn’t need to think about whether he should work it, whether he should _use_ the sky-metal, not right now. He only needs to think about how even seeing the streak of metal falling from the skies is a good omen, and how even finding it may not lead to anything at all.

But he finds it. He finds it closer to him than he could ever have imagined, a bare hour’s run away, and when he finds it, it is still red-hot and steaming and melting the ice around it. It is hot enough to be worked, and Iorek stops mere feet away from it.

He shouldn’t. He is a renegade, a criminal, not even panserbjørne. The judgement of panserbjørne law has come down on him, exiling him from his people, and he has no right to the sky-metal. If he were an honourable panserbjørne, he would leave it.

But this sky-metal is a blessing from the skies. He is far from his people’s traditional homeland in Svalbard, and this is one of his people’s oldest and greatest omens. Why would it have come down, if not for him? Why would he, a dishonoured panserbjørne, be granted such an august sign?

His brother’s words ring in his head, his brother’s words and the echoing rumble of the panserbjørne Guards who defended him before the king on his final day in the Ice Palace. For the first time, they match with his own repressed thoughts, his own suspicions that not all was right in his final fight. He doesn’t like these thoughts, but if Iorek was in the wrong and unworthy of being panserbjørne, the skies would not have blessed him with another chance.

He reaches out, touching the sizzling sky-metal. His paws burn, but he doesn’t have the time or supplies to work with the sky-metal with anything except his paws. He rips the gift from the skies into three sections, one for the helmet and two for the side-armour pieces, and he begins to work them as fast as he can. This metal will not stay hot long; once it sets, it will be much harder to work. The helmet comes first—as the smallest piece, it will cool the fastest, and it is the most desperate. He flattens the sky-metal, beating it with heavy blows with both paws, chooses the simplest helm design he knows, and bends the sheet into the right size, the right shape, the right fit. His side-plates come next, more flattening and curving, but they are larger pieces and simpler than his helm. They have no joints yet, but that is something that can be fixed later.

Twelve sleepless hours later, Iorek holds his second set of armour. This is not his first set of armour—it is rough, it is battered, and it is unadorned. It is a darker red-black in colour, not the sleek dark grey of his first set, and it is not beautiful. It is, however, serviceable, and it is his.

Iorek Byrnison knows himself, and he is panserbjørne.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the prompt! I had a good time trying to extrapolate what was in the books to develop panserbjørne culture, and ultimately I based it on a _budo_ like honour code, except dialed up to a thousand. Then came the role of sky-metal, and then Iorek's own life story which was only barely sketched out in the books. I really hope I did your prompt justice, and that you enjoyed!


End file.
